The brownstone feels different now, as if violated.
I stood at the window where Angelo's photographer stood across the street, staring at the spot where someone watched us, documented our sanctuary, and turned our safe place into a target.
Tony moves behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat through my blouse. His reflection in the glass shows controlled fury - jaw tight, shoulders tense beneath the dress shirt that stretches across his muscular frame.
"We need to talk." His voice is rough, restrained.
"I know." I turn to face him. Up close, the evidence of his struggle is more unmistakable - the way his tattooed forearms flex as his hands clench, the darkness in his green eyes that speaks of barely controlled violence. "I'm sorry I went alone, and kept the threatening email from you this morning."
